


making something

by jehancourf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:14:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehancourf/pseuds/jehancourf
Summary: It’s not Enjolras’ fault, really, that he developed a crush. Grantaire is good with kids, for Christ’s sake.To be more specific: Enjolras and Grantaire are art students that are friends due to convenience, and suddenly it's not convenient anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> lmao this month has been some primo garbage, here's a vague attempt at self care via art school au
> 
> lost cause update for new years peace out

“Quit twitching.”

“I’m not twitching.” 

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

Grantaire scoffs and rolls his eyes, but Enjolras is pretty sure he’s smiling. He can’t tell, of course, because he has his back to him, head rested daintily on his pillow, but the sound of Grantaire’s voice is charming and familiar. Enjolras is nude, covered only at the hip with a thin blue sheet, and positioned comfortably on an air mattress in the studio for Grantaire to paint, but Grantaire is right. He’s definitely twitching.

He can’t help it. Staying still for so long, especially nude, is making Enjolras antsy, no matter how much he enjoys being painted. 

“You are.” Grantaire says, determinedly, as if on cue. “But if you can wait another, like, five minutes, I’ll let you get up and stretch.”

Enjolras smiles to himself. “Oh, you’ll let me, huh?”

“Uh huh, you’ll have my full permission.”

Enjolras considers it. He’s considered his options for the majority of the afternoon, actually, having posed this way for the better part of three hours already. Falling asleep seemed like a good idea for a while, and he’s done it before, but today, Grantaire has been humming a tune and chatting with him and telling him stories, and Enjolras just couldn’t find it in his heart to fall asleep.

They’ve been making art together for the better part of the semester, having found solace in near-solitude. Grantaire, preferring to paint from life in a more private setting, and Enjolras, getting angry and snappy as he prints, they’ve always been best left alone, but together, they’ve found an understanding, a compatibility of handicaps. Grantaire keeps Enjolras from having a breakdown and, in return, Enjolras models.

He thought, the first time, it might be an erotic act. He’s never had a formal art education, and his work has always been political: stickers, patches, embroidery, screenprints, and anything else that could require a printing press and minimal painting. Art came from necessity for him, not talent or enjoyment, and instead, with time and experience, became such. Enjolras was never envious of fine artists, he admired people who could frame a composition or draw technically well, it was just never something he himself could do.

He found, of course, that there was nothing even mildly sexual about posing for life drawing, let alone painting, because all he was doing was sitting around, often uncomfortably, for a number of hours. He wasn’t allowed to move, and, depending on the artist, he wasn’t allowed to take breaks or talk. Luckily, Grantaire seems to like him enough now that he lets him chat, and smile. He almost always finds himself having a lovely time.

Almost always, because he’s currently anxious to stand and stretch. 

He whines.

“Alright.” Grantaire says, and Enjolras hears the telltale sound of a paintbrush dropping into a jar of water, and then footsteps. “Let me put down some painters’ tape.”

Enjolras turns his head to look at him, flashing him a happy smile. Grantaire looks tired, but cheerful, his apron having gained a few new spots. Pastels, Enjolras notes as Grantaire leans over the air mattress. There’s a similar spot on his nose. He watches Grantaire rip a piece of tape off with his teeth, hair falling in his face, and decides that it may be best to turn his head around again.

If you spend a long period of time with one person, feelings are bound to pop up. You learn about a person, about their likes and dislikes, about their hobbies and their talents, about their family and friends, about their history, about their passions. Enjolras had, previously, formed the idea in his head that Grantaire was a stagnant character, with one side and one interest and no other plane apart from the one he had shown him. Of course, this isn’t true. Every human is multifaceted, and Enjolras has had the privilege and the pleasure of discovering Grantaire’s more private sides. 

Grantaire likes people. He’s very loving. He likes children, and children like him. He’s very active, and is in fantastic shape, despite not conventionally looking it. He fences, dances, ice-skates, and bikes. He’s an experienced gymnast and boxer, and he’s good at “every sport but softball.” He’s bad at math. He’s funny, and good at telling stories, but not good at ending them. His family is big and caring and from the city. He will eat anything anyone puts in front of him. He is a fantastic artist, but he is humble about it. He likes to paint, but above all he loves to paint Enjolras.

It’s not Enjolras’ fault, really, that he developed a crush. Grantaire is good with kids, for Christ’s sake.

“Okay, you can get up now.” He hears Grantaire say, somewhere off in the distance. He brings his mind back to the present, sitting up and stretching his arms. His breasts are uncovered, but he doesn’t feel exposed, despite his nervousness, because he’s used to this by now.

Enjolras smiles up at him, hands coming down to run over the painters’ tape. Grantaire smiles back. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s nice. Domestic.

“May I see so far?” Enjolras asks, like he always does.

“Of course.” Grantaire says, like he always does.

See, they’ve fallen into a sort of pattern. It’s become like clockwork.

Enjolras gets up, carefully so as to not stir the blankets much, stretches again, and reaches to put on his silk bathrobe. (Grantaire had bought it for him when they started. His fluffy, red one had been too warm in the September heat, and Grantaire had laughed at him. This one is green. It’s too cold now, but he wears it anyway.) He walks, barefoot on the cold wood, to the easel, Grantaire at his tail.

When he rounds the canvas, he sucks in a breath.

For how used to working with Grantaire he is, Enjolras could never be used to the outcome. He always finds himself shocked by the accuracy, color choices, and masterful craftsmanship of Grantaire’s paintings. This one is mostly yellow, capturing the afternoon light coming through the windows of the studio, and Enjolras’ body is shades of purples and blues so light that he almost looks like a ghost. As demeaning as it is to use the word “beautiful” when looking at art, Enjolras finds it to be the only word running through his mind. The painting is noticeably unfinished, but the curve of Enjolras’ shoulder, the swell of his hips, the fall of his hair-- it puts him in a light that only Grantaire could see. 

Enjolras clutches his robe to keep himself from touching the canvas.

“God.” He says, tearing his eyes away to look at Grantaire, who is watching him with a curious smile, hands in his pockets. “It looks great, R. I love it.”

“It’s not done, doofus.” Grantaire replies, but he’s smiling, a mix of relieved and proud that Enjolras has become accustom to.

“I know. But it’s on the right path.” Enjolras looks again. “I think you can call it done if you just tighten up the left of me. Those pillows, the wallpaper, you know.”

“Mm.” Grantaire looks scrutinizingly at his painting, then points to the back of painted Enjolras’ head. “I wish I did this from the front. The sun would’ve hit your face just right.”

Enjolras elbows him, smiling at his own hands. “Loser.” He mumbles,. “Next time.”

Grantaire is silent for a moment, eyes wandering over the canvas’ surface until he seems to tire himself out, then brings his smile back to Enjolras. “Wanna grab a snack with me?”

Enjolras nods, not having noticed he was hungry. “Vending machine?”

“Yup.”

He follows Grantaire out into the hall, which is empty, save for someone having a conversation with their cell phone. Enjolras reaches for Grantaire’s hand, standing close. He isn’t nervous around strangers, but he is nervous about not passing. Grantaire laces their fingers together and squeezes in silent solidarity. Enjolras’ heart flip flops, and the person doesn’t pay them any mind.

When they slow to a stop in front of the vending machine, Enjolras rests his head on Grantaire’s arm. He is warm, and his skin is almost as familiar as his voice.  Not quite. As Grantaire gets out his wallet, Enjolras closes his eyes and nuzzles his bicep, just listening to the beep beep beep of the vending machine.

“Hey, R?” Enjolras asks, hearing a snack fall from it’s place in the machine. Chips of some kind. He opens his eyes. Cheetos. Grantaire leans down to pick them up, and Enjolras reluctantly lets him go, watching his hand enter and exit the little opening.

“What’s up? What do you want?” Asks Grantaire, gesturing back to the machine.

Enjolras thinks about it. It’s such a loaded question. What does he want? Beyond the candy, chips and crackers? Does he want to continue his quiet crush? Does he want to date Grantaire, or just to kiss him? What would next semester look like, on Grantaire’s arm? What more could he learn, from that vantage point? Would Grantaire even feel the same? Would it even be a possibility? Would it be worth it, in the long run, to break the pattern that they have created, just to fill the silence in Enjolras’ feelings?

“Popcorn.” He decides.

Grantaire buys him a bag of popcorn.

___

Enjolras is glad he is a creative person. He can always say he has an outlet for whenever his mood falters, whether it be prints or embroidery or just rants about politics on the internet. His art can be both self harm and self care, but since it’s generally safe and nontoxic, he can focus any and all negative energy on it instead of lashing out or having an episode or just generally breaking down. He can make some pretty cool stuff that way, too.

Today though, Enjolras finds, unfortunately, that avoiding Grantaire makes for very lonely art making, and eventually only serves to make him feel worse.

He doesn’t want to avoid him. Enjolras knows that his art is better when Grantaire’s there, and that he’d be better off just ignoring his feelings, but he doesn’t see the point of it. He’d rather spend his time with Grantaire giving him the attention he deserves, and not ruining a good time with his nonsense. Besides, he’ll figure it out. He just has to decide what he wants to do first.

So Enjolras is ignoring Grantaire. 

He’s tried texting him a few times, but Enjolras just put it on airplane mode and blasted music from the speakers in the print lab. Nothing like manpain indie music and screen printing “feelings suck” all over a white sweatshirt to make you forget your troubles.

Or amplify them.

Enjolras is halfway through a bucket of neon yellow screen ink, making a point not to think about his problem because if he does, he knows he’ll cry, when the music turns down behind him. He whips his head around to find, of course, Grantaire, standing at the stereo with one eyebrow quirked.

“Hey, buddy.” He says incredulously, and Enjolras winces. “You okay?”

Enjolras bites his lip. Naturally, Grantaire was worried about him. He is both comforted by the thought and disgusted at himself for worrying him.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Enjolras stammers. He rubs his hands over his face. Grantaire, catching onto the implication, immediately rushes to him, offering his arms, and Enjolras would be stupid not to fall into them. “I’m sorry.” He says against his shirt, feeling absolutely idiotic.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Grantaire coos, petting his hair. He is so warm. Enjolras wants to cry. “Everyone needs some alone time now and then.”

Enjolras whines.

“Want to tell me what’s up?” Enjolras thinks about his breathing. It’s not a big deal. Grantaire is here. He’s safe. “You don’t have to, but it might help.”

“I’m sorry.” He says again, head nestled against Grantaire’s chest. “I’m just dealing with some complicated feelings right now.”

“Ah.” Grantaire notes, and Enjolras can’t see his face, but he knows that Grantaire is smiling. “I get that. The sweatshirt’s pretty cool, though.”

Enjolras giggles in spite of himself. Of course, Grantaire would be joking. “Thanks.” He says. His voice sounds exhausted, even to his own ears. He can’t keep doing this. He can’t let this become a part of the pattern. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If we were to like,” Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Go on a date. And kiss each other. And other such… activities.” Fuck. “God, I mean—“

Grantaire gives him a squeeze. “Go on, you’re okay.” He says, and Christ, Enjolras is so gone.

“I would really like to be your boyfriend instead of your friend, Grantaire.” He tells him, with a little more confidence. Grantaire pulls back and smiles at him.

“You turned your phone off all day for that?” He deadpans. Enjolras is stricken for half a second before Grantaire laughs at him and he’s smacking his bicep.

“Asshole! Be serious!” 

“I am serious. What if your mom called?”

“R—“

“I want to be your boyfriend, too, Enjolras. There is no one in the whole world that I would rather be with.”

Enjolras colors. “Oh.”

Grantaire chuckles again and rests his hands gently on Enjolras’ waist, silently asking for another embrace. Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with that, his head spinning.

“Cool.”

“Cool?” Grantaire’s voice is teasing, but Enjolras doesn’t care.

“We’re dating.” He says, resting his hands on his chest. “You and me are boyfriends.” And before Grantaire can object, Enjolras surges up to kiss him.

Enjolras knew he wouldn’t, though. He knows Grantaire too well, and besides, they haven’t made any art today.


End file.
